UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


-    ' 


A    BUNDLE    OF    MYRRH 


By  John    G.  Neihardt 

A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 

Man-Song 

The  Dawn-Builder 

The  River  and  I 

The  Lonesome  Trail 


A  B  un die 
of  Myrrh 


by 

John  G.  Neihardt 


MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

MCMXI 


COPYRIGHT,  1907,  BY 
JOHN  G    NEIHARDT 

Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London,  England 


All  rights  reserved 
Published  December,  1907 


DEDICATION 

When  I — the  fool — am  dead, 

There  will  be  one  to  stand  above  my  head, 

Her  wan  lips  yearning  toward  my  quiet  lips 

That  stung  her  soul  so  oft  with  bitter  cries. 
g[       And  I  shall  feel  forgiving  finger-tips 
J3        And  I  shall  hear  her  saying  with  her  sighs: 

"  This  fool  I  mothered  sucked  a  bitter  breast; 

His  life  was  fever  and  his  soul  was  fire: 
CM        O  burning  fool,  O  restless  fool  at  rest, 

None  knew  but  I  how  high  you  could  aspire, 
0        None  knew  but  I  how  deep  your  soul  could  sink! 

CM 

oc 

«^        And  when  these  words  above  the  fool  are  said, 
The  others  ranged  about  the  room  shall  think 

fe        The  fool  is  dead. 
Cu 

rr: 

tu 

GO 


402G5O 


"  Who  is  she  that  looketh  forth  as  the  morning, 
Fair  as  the  moon, 
Clear  as  the  sun, 
And  terrible  as  an  army  with  banners?  " 


PRELUDE 

I  WOULD  sing  as  the  Wind ; 
As  the  autumn  Wind,  big  with  rain  and  sad  with 

prenatal  dread. 
I  would  sing  as  the  Storm ; 
As  the  Storm  whipped  by  the  lightning  and  strong 

with  the  despair  of  giants. 
I  would  sing  as  the  Snow ; 
Wailing  and   hissing  and   writhing  in   the  merciless 

grasp  of  the  Blizzard. 
I  would  sing  as  the  Prairie ; 
As  the  Prairie  droning  in  the  heat,  satisfied,  drowsy 

and  mystical. 

Rhymeless  or  meterless — carelessly; 
Artless  as  Joy  or  as  Sorrow ; 
Artless  as  Winds  in  their  gladness  or  Winds  in  their 

anger. 

For  I  am  a  part  of  the  Prairie, 
Part  of  the  Wind  and  the  Lightning. 
I  love  as  the  Prairie  would  love, 
As  the  Storm  would  hate,  I  hate ! 
I  feel  the  despair  of  the  Dusk ! 
I  joy  with  the  joy  of  the  River! 
Even  as  these  would  sing  in  their  differing  moods, 

I  sing! 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I  LINES  IN  LATE  MARCH       .        .        ^        .3 

1 1  I  AM  AS  A  CLOUD     .        .        .        .        .5 

III  THE  WITLESS  MUSICIAN     .         ...    6 

IV  THE  SOUND  MY  SPIRIT  CALLS  You  .    8 
V  AT  PARTING       .         .         .         .         .         .10 

VI  LONGING  .         ......  12 

VII  IT  MAY  BE        ...      '  .        .        .  14 

VIII  SHOULD  WE  FORGET          .        .        .        .15 

IX  COME  BACK       .         .         .         .        .        .16 

X  IN  AUTUMN        .         .         .                  .         .17 

XI  THE  SUBTLE  SPIRIT 19 

XII  CHASER  OF  DIM  VAST  FIGURES  .         .        .20 

XIII  THE  TEMPLE  OF  THE  GREAT  OUTDOORS  .         .  22 

XIV  WHEN  I  AM  DEAD     .         .         .         .         .  25 
XV  IN  DEJECTION    .         .         .         .         .         .26 

XVI  A  FANCY           .         .         .         .         .         .28 

XVII   RETROSPECT 29 

XVIII  RECOGNITION     .         .        ,         .        .         .31 

XIX   CONFESSION 33 

XX  WEARY 34 

XXI  IF  THIS  BE  SIN         .        .        .        .        .  35 

XXII  LET  DOWN  YOUR  HAIR      .        .        .         .37 

XXIII  THE  LYRIC  NIGHT     .        .         .         .         .39 
xiii 


Contents 


XXIV  TITAN-WOMAN 41 

XXV  AT  DAWN 43 

XXVI  ACROSS  THE  SEA  OF  CENTURIES       .         .  45 

XXVII  THE  CRY  OF  THE  SAMSON  IN  ME     .         .  48 

XXVIII  THE  CITY  OF  DUST         .         .         .         .50 

XXIX  LET  ME  LIVE  OUT  MY  YEARS         .         .  52 

XXX  PRAYER  OF  AN  ALIEN  SOUL    .         .         .53 

XXXI  THE  ANCIENT  STORY       .         .         .         .56 

XXXII  THE  LAST  ALTAR 58 

XXXIII  RESURRECTION  .  60 


xiv 


A   BUNDLE   OF    MYRRH 

A  Sequence  of  Songs  and  Chants 


A    BUNDLE    OF    MYRRH 

i 

LINES   IN   LATE   MARCH 

I  WHISTLE:  why  not? 
Have  I  not  seen  the  first  strips  of  green  winding 

up  the  sloughs? 

Have  I  not  heard  the  meadow-lark? 
I  have  looked  into  the  soft  blue  skies  and  have  been 
uplifted ! 

Where  are  the  doubts  and  dark  ideas  I  entertained  ? 
What    have    I    caught    from    the    maple-buds    that 

changes  me? 
Or  was  it  the  meadow-lark — or  the  blue  sky — or  the 

strips  of  green? 
The  green  that  winds  up  the  sloughs  ? 

I  sought  the  dark  and  found  much  of  it. 
Is  there  in  truth  much  darkness? 
Have  the  meadow-larks  lied  to  me? 
Have  the  green  grass  and  the  blue  sky  testified  falsely  ? 

3 


A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


I  want  to  trust  the  sky  and  the  grass  1 

I  want  to  believe  the  songs  I  hear  from  the  fence-posts ! 

Why  should  a  maple-bud  mislead  me? 


John  G.  Neihardt 


II 
I   AM   AS   A   CLOUD 

I  AM  dark  as  a  cloud — a  cloud  of  winter. 
She  is  sunlight:  she  looks  upon  me,  and  lo!  I  am 

golden. 

Her  softest  step  stirs  me  as  the  beating  of  a  drum ! 
She  sings! 

Her  voice  wraps  me  like  a  caress 
Ah — the  caress  of  a  woman ! 
I  would  that  I  were  a  rose  upon  a  bush  her  whim  had 

chosen. 

Even  for  a  day  would  I  be  a  rose. 
In  the  evening  I  would  not  complain  to  feel  the  frost 

upon  my  head — 
The  frost  upon  my  head ! 
Or  sweeter  still,  I  would  be  plucked  by  her  with  a 

great  pang; 

And  as  my  stem  parted  I  would  bleed  fragrant  dew. 
Upon  her  finger-tips  I  would  bleed  odorous  dew. 
And  I  would  not  complain  about  the  hours  of  growing  ; 
I  would  not  cry  out  about  them,  saying  They  are 

wasted. 
The   pain   made   by  her   innocent   enjoyment  would 

suffice — 
It  would  suffice. 

5 


A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


III 
THE   WITLESS   MUSICIAN 

HE  is  my  violin! 


As  the  violinist  lays  his  ear  to  his  instrument 

That  he  may  catch  the  low  vibrations  of  the  deeper 

strings, 

Thus  I  lay  my  ear  to  her  breast. 

I  hear  her  blood  singing  and  I  am  shaken  with  ecstacy  ; 
For  am  I  not  the  musician? 

She  is  my  harp  —  I  play  upon  her. 

I  touch  her,  and  she  trembles  as  a  harp  with  the  first 

chord  of  revery. 
I  lay  my  hands  upon  her  with  that  divine  thrill  in  my 

finger-tips, 

That  reverent  nervousness  of  the  fingers, 
Which  a  harpist  feels  when  he  reaches  for  a  ravishing 

chord, 
Elusive  chord  from  among  the  labyrinthine  strings. 

I  am  a  musician  for  the  first  time! 
I  have  found  an  instrument  to  play  upon! 
She  is  my  violin  —  she  is  my  harp  ! 

6 


John  G.  Neihardt 


A  song  slept  in  her  blood. 

None  had  found  it — and  it  slept. 

Lo !  I — even  I  who  am  so  poor  in  power, 

Who  was  a  pauper  in  conception  of  harmony, 

I  have  awakened  by  chance  the  slumbering  song ! 

It  wraps  me  as  with  a  vast  mantle ! 
I  am  covered  completely. 
I  hear  nothing ;  I  see  nothing ; 

I  only  feel  that  song  which  I  have  awakened  mys 
teriously. 

Lo,  I,  the  witless  musician ! 

I  have  played  even  as  Masters  of  Melody, 

Even  as  Masters  of  Song ! 


A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


IV 
THE    SOUND    MY    SPIRIT    CALLS    YOU 

1   WOULD  I  knew  some  slow  soft  sound  to  call 
you: 

Some  slow  soft  syllable  that  should  linger  on  the  lip 
As  loath  to  pass,  because  of  its  own  sweetness. 

I  can  not  shape  the  sound — tho'  I  have  heard  it : 
Heard  it  in  the  night-wind  and  the  rush  of  the  rain ! 
Heard  it  in  the  dull  monotony  of  the  dozing  noon ! 
Heard  it  among  the  leaves  when  Winds  were  fagged 
at  nightfall ! 

Kind  as  the  shade,  this  sound. 

Kind  as  the  dull  blue  shade  that  blade-like  cuts 

A  kingdom  of  coolness  from  the  cruel  Noon : 

Soft  as  the  kiss  of  the  Stream  to  the  drooping  Leaf; 

Sad  as  the  pale  Sun's  smile  over  the  Blizzard's  bier; 

Deep  and  resonant  as  distant  thunder  after  a  day  of 

heat; 
Mystic  as  the  dream  of  the  illimitable  Prairie  under 

the  August  glare; 
Mysterious  as  the  blue  haze  in  which  the  turbid  River 

dwindles  to  a  creek! 
8 


John  G.  Neihardt 


I  cannot  speak  the  language  of  the  Hills. 
I  am  unskilled  to  sing  the  notes  of  the  June  South- 
wind. 
The  Noon  croons  not  with  such  a  tongue  as  mine. 

Yet — even  tho'   I  be  dead,  this  sound  shall  call  you 

for  me! 

In  the  still  blue  nights — listen!  and  you  shall  hear  it! 
In  the  burst  of  the  storm  it  shall  be  as  a  whisper  to  you ! 
The  Morning  shall  sing  it  for  you  and  the  Sunset  paint 

its  meaning, 
Even  upon  a  background  of  burning  gold,  and  from 

the  palette  of  the  Rainbow ! 

I  would  that  my  tongue  could  shape  this  sound  my 

spirit  calls  you. 

It  would  be  as  a  rose-leaf  becoming  vocal ; 
As  a  honeycomb  talking  of  sweetness ! 
And  it  would  pass  slowly  and  gloriously  as  a  sunset 

passes ; 

Gloriously  and  lingeringly  it  would  die  away, 
Leaving  upon  my  strangely  nervous  lips 
The  faint  suggestion  of  a  fragrance. 


A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


V 

AT   PARTING 

NO  more   from   light   to  light,   from   gloom   to 
gloom, 

Shall  you  grow  up  about  me,  making  bloom 
Each  individual  moment  like  a  rose. 
From  morning  to  the  quiet  evening's  close, 
From  dusk  unto  the  coming  of  the  sun, 
I  feel  the  hours  grow  empty  one  by  one. 
It  is  the  way  of  life — a   look,  a  smile, 
A  slow  sweet  joy  for  just  a  little  while; 
Then  going,  then  forgetting,  then  the  slow 
Monotony  of  days  that  come  and  go. 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  our  diverging  ways, 
You  have  a  place  in  all  my  nights  and  days. 
The  dim,  mysterious,  purple  nights  of  moon 
Shall  sing  you  to  me  with  a  quiet  tune. 
When  skies  grow  soft  and  blue  in  after  days, 
Then  shall  I  feel  your  pure,  calm,  searching  gaze. 
And  ever  when  the  Green  World  wakes  in  dew, 
I  shall  breathe  in  the  fragrant  soul  of  you. 

So  Night  shall  be  my  servant,  and  the  Day 
Shall  conjure  back  that  which  has  passed  away; 
10 


John  G,  Neihardt 


That  sweet  and  calm  and  kind,  elusive  thing — 
A  song  that  I  conceived,  but  could  not  sing; 
A  dream  I  dreamed,  but  waking  could  not  live; 
Sweet  wine  for  which  my  goblet  was  a  sieve! 


II 


A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


VI 
LONGING 

OHOLD  no  more  the  prize  of  wealth  before  me, 
Nor  hope  of  praise ; 

Nor  talk  of  things  men  toil  for,  to  deplore  me 
My  dream-filled  days! 

My  spirit,  weary  of  the  dreary  gabble, 

The  sinning,  grinning  world, 

Should  float,  cloudlike,  in  calm  above  the  rabble, 

Content  and  furled. 

Give  me  a  fastness  distant  from  the  city, 
The  human  sea 

Which  I  should  hate,  were  not  I  forced  to  pity, 
Because  akin  to  me. 

There  in  the  wilds  with  only  you  to  love  me 
And  none  to  hate, 

I  could  feel  Something  good  and  strong  above  me, 
More  kind  than  Fate. 

The  Wind  would  take  my  hand  and  lead  me  kindly 
Through  the  wild ; 

12 


John  G.  Neihardt 


And  teach  me  to  believe  in  beauty  blindly, 
Like  a  child. 

I  could  forget  the  aches  of  hope  and  failing, 
That  with  slow  fires  consume 
This  fevered  flesh  that  goes  on  groping,  wailing 
Toward  the  gloom. 

Far  from  the  bitter  grin  of  human  faces 
I  could  sing: 

Robed  in  the  vast  and  lonesome  purple  spaces 
Like  a  king. 


A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


VII 
IT   MAY   BE 

IT  may  be  we  shall  meet  again  hereafter, 
When  we  have  grown  too  wise  at  length  for  tears ; 
And  we  shall  say  with  strange,  hysteric  laughter, 
"  My  friend,  how  have  you  fared  in  all  these  years?  " 
And  we  shall  chatter,  two  old  folk  and  toothless, 
About  the  golden  dawn  of  life,  and  smile 
To  see  how  Time,  with  heavy  hand  and  ruthless, 
Hath  scrawled  upon  the  dial. 

And  I  shall  take  your  hand,  poor  wrinkled  hand, 
Too  nerveless  grown  to  feel  as  now  a  thrill, 
And  I  shall  try  to  make  you  understand — 
I  wonder  if  you  will. 

And  I  shall  look  dim-eyed  into  your  eyes 
With  twilight  in  them  where  the  day  now  glows, 
And  search  for  some  dim  vestige  of  old  skies 
With  dawn  a-blossom  in  them  like  a  rose. 
And  in  some  manner,  strange,  inscrutable, 
Some  spark  of  psychic  interchange  may  grow, 
That  after  all  these  years  it  may  be  well, 
And  love  light  up  the  shadows  where  we  go. 
H 


John  G.  Neihardt 


VIII 
SHOULD   WE   FORGET 

I  WONDER  if  the  skies  would  be  so  blue, 
Or  grass  so  kindly  green  as  'twas  of  old, 
Or  would  there  be  such  freshness  in  the  dew 
When  purple  mornings  blossom  into  gold : 
I  wonder  would  the  sudden  song  of  birds, 
Thrilling  the  storm-hushed  forest  dripping  wet 
After  a  June  shower,  be  as  idle  words, 
Should  we  forget. 

I  wonder  if  we'd  feel  the  charm  of  night 
Divinely  lonesome  with  the  glow  of  moons; 
Or  would  we  prize  the  intermittent  light 
Burning  the  zenith  with  its  transient  noons: 
I  wonder  if  the  twilight  could  avail 
To  charm  us,  as  of  old  when  suns  had  set, 
If  all  these  many  dream-sweet  days  should  fail — 
And  we  forget. 


A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


IX 
COME    BACK 

COME  back  and  bring  the  summer  in  your  eyes, 
The  peace  of  evening  in  your  quiet  ways ; 
Come  back  and  lead  again  toward  Paradise 
The  errant  days ! 

Of  old  I  saw  the  sunlight  on  the  corn, 
The  wind-blown  ripple  running  on  the  wheat ; 
But  now  the  ways  are  shabby  and  forlorn 
That  knew  your  feet. 

Forget  the  words  meant  only  by  my  lips! 
Could  you  not  understand 
The  language  of  my  fevered  finger-tips 
When  last  you  took  my  hand  ? 


16 


John  G.  Nelhardt 


X 

IN   AUTUMN 

DREAR,  dull  autumnal  rain, 
Skies  washed  to  gray ; 

Winds  sighing  like  an  unfleshed  ancient  pain ; 
Uncanny  day ! 

A  time  for  tears  and  musings  on  the  past, 
For  vain  regret; 

A  time  to  dream  of  joys  that  could  not  last 
But  mock  us  yet. 

A  time  to  dream  of  winter  and  to  mourn ; 
To  hear  sad  tunes ; 

To  yearn  unto  the  far  and  shadowed  bourne 
Of  perished  Junes. 

Yet  not  for  me  this  drear  autumnal  mood, 
This  winter  fear; 

I  view  from  no  dull  mental  solitude 
The  aging  Year. 

For  me — the  memory  of  sun-shot  days, 
Nights  kind  and  warm; 

17 


A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


Moons  purpling  the  weird  star-enchanted  haze ; 
The  April  storm ! 

The  rain's  drone  on  the  roof,  the  wind's  lament 
Among  the  trees; 

These  make  me  hear  through  days  of  warm  content 
The  hum  of  bees. 

I  hear  the  wailing  and  I  see  the  skies, 
Yet  feel  no  pain ; 

I  hear  and  see  with  spirit  ears  and  eyes 
The  robin  in  the  rain. 

Because  I  see  with  eyes  that  saw  your  face 
As  none  had  seen ; 

And  hear  with  ears  that  heard  you — every  place 
Is  summer-green. 

And  I  shall  hear  the  robin  through  the  fall 
And  in  the  snow; 

Because  you  live  and  breathe  and  love  in  all, 
Where'er  I  go. 


18 


John  G.  Neihardt 


XI 
THE   SUBTLE   SPIRIT 

I  BUILT  a  temple  for  my  spirit's  home; 
I  filled  it  with  myself — and  it  was  fair. 
From  its  dream-pavement  to  its  dream-reared  dome 
No  spirit  but  my  own  existed  there. 
About  the  walls  I  wrought  with  doting  care 
Huge  fancies  alien  to  the  world  of  men, 
Vague  daubs  and  vast  of  youth  and  light  and  air 
Sublimely  isolated  in  my  spirit's  den, 
I    lived    and    toiled    and    dreamed,    and    hoped — and 

then — and  then — 
Another  spirit  entered,  subtle,  slow, 
Like  summer  coming  when  the  winter  flees, 
With  eyes  that  had  the  soft,  warm,  quiet  glow 
Of  some  calm  evening  of  a  day  of  ease : 
And  that  was  you ! 

I  felt,  upon  my  knees, 
A  swift,  mysterious  spreading  of  the  place! 
My  poor  walls  seemed  to  hold  infinities 
Too  vast  for  peace !    I  fell  upon  my  face 
And  worshiped  you  at  last,  the  spirit  of  the  place! 


A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


XII 
CHASER   OF   DIM   VAST   FIGURES 

CHASER  of  dim  vast  figures  in  the  mist, 
Drawn  by  far  cries,  an  alien  to  content, 
Builder  of  burning  worlds  that  passed  in  gloom, 
Vain  architect  of  great  sky-spaces,  filled 
With  unreal  suns  uncurtaining  the  day 
That  fell  again  in  dismal  night — 'Twas  I! 

A  pigmy  in  all  else  but  daring  dreams, 
A  grasper  after  monstrous  shadow-shapes, 
With  stars  for  eyes  and  mass  of  cloud  for  cloak 
And  dreams  for  blood  and  winds  of  night  for  voice ; 
I  sought,  they  fled ;  and  wailing  after — I ! 

And  wailing  after — I :  for  somewhere  lurked 
The  awful  form  of  Beauty  Absolute ; 
A  pagan  goddess,  vast  of  limb  and  thigh, 
With  burning  hills  for  breasts,  and  for  a  face 
Dim  features  dazzled  with  an  inward  sun; 
A  form  of  classic  curves,  voluptuous  slope 
Of  neck  and  shoulders  downward  to  the  breasts ; 
Arms  warm  and  languid  as  the  soul  of  Love 
And  scintillant  as  rockets  of  the  dawn ! 
20 


John  G.  Neihardt 


And  at  her  feet  I  dreamed  to  lay  my  head, 
A  pigmy  worshiper,  who  could  not  reach 
Unto  the  ankles  mountain-high,  where  blazed 
Circles  of  jewels  like  chained  satellites, 
To  touch  which  with  the  finger-tips  were  death ! 

And  I  would  guess  sweet  guesses — how  her  hair 
Made  sunlight  upward  where  my  eyes  saw  not; 
How  sweet  the  thunder  of  her  beating  heart 
And  terrible !    I  sought  and  found  her  not. 

Yet  everywhere  I  saw  her  with  my  soul : 
Saw  her  in  girlhood,  strolling  with  the  Spring; 
And  in  the  sultry  summer  sunsets  saw 
The  glory  of  her  searching  woman-eyes, 
That  made  me  sing  strange  songs  of  sweet  despair. 
And  I  have  watched  her  hair  trail  down  in  flame 
The  vapor  plains  and  mountains  of  the  West! 
Thus  loving  what  was  not,  the  dreamer — I ! 

And  as  I  reached  my  eager  arms  to  clasp 
The  prodigy  that  fled — you  filled  them  full, 
And  in  my  hair  I  felt  your  fingers  move, 
And  felt  your  woman's  lips  about  my  face, 
And  felt  your  cool  cheek  on  my  fevered  cheek. 
So  I  have  lost  the  wish  to  dream  again. 


21 


A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


XIII 

THE   TEMPLE   OF   THE   GREAT 
OUTDOORS 

X  O !  I  am  the  builder  of  a  temple ! 

j  Even  I,  who  groped  so  long  for  God 
And  laughed  the  cackling  laugh  to  find  the  darkness 

empty, 
I  am  the  builder  of  a  temple ! 

The  toiling  shoulders  of  my  dream  heaved  up  the  arch 
And  set  the  pillars  of  the  Dawn, 
The  burning  pillars  of  the  Evening  and  the  Dawn, 
Under  the  star-sprent,  sun-shot,  moon-enchanted  dome 
of  blue! 

And  I,  who  knew  no  God, 
Stood  straight,  unhumbled  in  my  temple: 
I  did  not  fear  the  subtle  Mystery  of  the  Darkness, 
And  I  was  only  glad  to  feel  the  miraculous  rush  of 
sunlight  in  my  blood ! 

I  did  not  bend  the  knee. 

I  was  unafraid,  unashamed,  careless  and  defiant. 
22 


John  G.  Neihardt 


I  was  a  laughing  Ego  that  felt  within  itself  the  thrill 

of  potential  godhood : 
I  stood  as  in  the  center  of  the  Universe  and  laughed ! 

And  in  my  temple  there  were  songs  and  organ  tones, 
And  there  was  a  silent  Something  holier  than  prayer. 
I  heard  the  winds  and  the  streams  and  the  sounds  of 

many  birds: 
I  heard  the  shouting  of  storms  and  the  moaning  of 

snows ; 

I  heard  my  heart,  and  it  was  lifted  up  in  song. 
The  Wind  passing  in  a  gust  was  as  though  an  organ 

had  been  stricken  by  the  hands  of  a  capricious 

Master ! 

There  was  movement  in  the  air,  motion  in  the  leaves, 
a  stirring  in  the  grass, 

Even  as  of  the  reverent  moving  about  of  a  congre 
gation. 

Yet  I  stood  alone  in  my  temple ;  I  stood  alone  and  was 
not  afraid. 

But  once  a  Something  glided  into  my  temple 

And  I  became  afraid! 

As  the  Moon-woman  of  the  Greeks  the  Something 

seemed, 

Lithe  and  swift  and  pale, 
A  fitting  human  sheath  for  the  keen  chaste  spirit  of  a 

sword ! 

23 


A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


And  then  it  seemed  my  temple  was  too  small. 
The  Presence  filled  it  to  the  furthest  nook ! 
There  was  no  lonesomeness  in  any  cranny! 

I  knelt — and  was  afraid! 

I  felt  the  Presence  in  the  winds; 

I  heard  it  in  the  streams; 

I  saw  it  in  the  restless  changing  of  the  clouds ! 

I  tried  to  be  as  I  had  been,  unbending,  not  afraid — 
godless. 

Subtle  as  the  scent  of  the  unseen  swinging  censer  of  the 

wild  flowers 
That  Presence  crept  upon  me! 

I  fled  from  the  terrible  sunlight  that  burned  the  dome 

of  my  temple! 

Childlike  I  hid  my  head  in  the  darkness ! 
But  I  am  not  alone. 

Where  I  have  laughed  defiantly  into  the  blind  empti 
ness, 

Something  moves! 

I  have  placed  my  irreverent  hand  upon  a  Something  in 
the  Shadow! 

I  tremble  lest  that  the  Thing  shall  illumine  itself  as 
the  Dawn; 

I  tremble  lest  at  last  I  must  see  God — 

See  God  and  laugh  no  more, 
24 


John  G.  Neihardt 


XIV 
WHEN   I   AM   DEAD 

WHEN  I  am  dead  and  nervous  hands  have  thrust 
My  body  downward  into  careless  dust ; 
I  think  the  grave  cannot  suffice  to  hold 
My  spirit  'prisoned  in  the  sunless  mould ! 
Some  subtle  memory  of  you  shall  be 
A  resurrection  of  the  life  of  me. 
Yea,  I  shall  be,  because  I  love  you  so, 
The  speechless  spirit  of  all  things  that  grow. 
You  shall  not  touch  a  flower  but  it  shall  be 
Like  a  caress  upon  the  cheek  of  me. 
I  shall  be  patient  in  the  common  grass 
That  I  may  feel  your  footfall  when  you  pass. 
I  shall  be  kind  as  rain  and  pure  as  dew 
A  loving  spirit  'round  the  life  of  you. 
When  your  soft  cheeks  by  perfumed  winds  are  fanned, 
'Twill  be  my  kiss — and  you  will  understand. 
But  when  some  sultry,  storm-bleared  sun  has  set, 
/  will  be  lightning  if  you  dare  forget! 


A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


XV 

IN   DEJECTION 

THIS  thing  I  hold  so  closely  in  my  arms, 
Feeling  its  heart  leap  strongly  at  my  kiss, 
Its  eyes  closed  gently  like  two  cloud-veiled  stars, 
Its  breath  like  some  soft  night  wind  on  my  neck ; 
.What  is  it  ? —  This  soft  thing  I  hold  so  closely  ? 

Ah,  head,  like  some  pale  flower  asleep  in  shade, 
Ah,  breast,  at  which  my  passionate  hands  have  thrilled, 
O  languid  arms  and  white  hands  veined  with  blue, 
A  little  while  and  these  may  be  a  lump 
To  make  me  shudder  with  a  dismal  dread ! 

O  precious  Thing  of  Flesh! 
Let  me  exhaust  the  softness  of  your  cheek 
With  one  long  desperate  kiss,  as  one  who  drinks 
The  final  maddening  drop  before  the  cup 
Be  shattered  into  dust !    O  let  me  breathe 
Your  breath  that  I  have  made  more  quick  and  warm, 
As  one  who  drowns  and  takes  the  latest  gasp ! 
The  time  may  come  when  my  fond  touch  shall  fail 
To  cause  your  sigh,  and  my  hot  kiss  be  vain 
To  make  your  blue-veined  temples  throb  as  now. 
26 


John  G.  Neihardt 


I  see  your  sunken  eyes,  your  rose-like  cheek 
Burned  black  with  agony !    And  I  shall  be 
So  jealous  of  the  ground  that  shall  embrace  you, 
So  jealous  of  the  grass  that  grows  above  you, 
So  jealous  of  the  silence  that  enfolds  you. 


A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


XVI 
A   FANCY 

IF  I  should  die,  and  some  strong  Voice  should  say 
Unto  my  soul  lost  in  the  vast  black  Deep, 
"  Where  wouldst  thou  take,  O  Soul,  thy  future  way, 
Wouldst  still  live  on  in  pain,  or  fall  asleep  ?  " 
I  know  that  I  would  say,  "  O  let  me  creep 
Into  the  roots  of  some  rose  she  loves  well ; 
Grow  upward  with  the  sap  of  spring  and  steep 
Its  petals  with  this  love  I  cannot  tell ; 
Breathe  out  these  dreams  in  perfume  that  could  speak 
My  longings  for  her,  for  which  words  are  weak ! 
Thus  grow  one  swift,  soft  summer  day,  then  feel 
The  pang  of  plucking  through  my  fibers  reel ! 
I  would  not  then  go  wailing  after  light; 
I  would  not  feel  the  terror  of  the  Night ; 
I  would  not  weary  of  the  endless  rush 
Of  mad  blind  Cycles  through  the  awful  Hush! 
I  would  not  tire  of  the  circling  years, 
But  I  would  be  a  song  to  soothe  the  aching  Spheres !  " 


John  G.  Neihardt 


XVII 
RETROSPECT 

WHEN  first  I  looked  upon  your  face 
It  seemed  to  me  it  was  not  new; 
It  seemed  from  some  far  distant  place 
I  but  remembered  you: 
For  some  sweet  subtle  feeling  told 
That  we  two  once  had  loved  of  old. 


The  clear-cut  curve  of  lip  and  chin, 
The  low  fond  voice,  the  gentle  way ; 
By  these  I  knew  that  we  had  been 
Fond  lovers  in  our  day : 
It  seemed  I  heard  you  singing  still 
To  me  by  some  Thessalian  rill ! 


Perhaps  I  was  a  shepherd  lad 
And  you  a  shepherd  maid ; 
And  Oh !  what  kisses  sweet  we  had 
The  while  our  two  flocks  strayed — 
Strayed  off  with  distant  bleat  and  bell 
Adown  some  green  Achaean  dell. 
29 


A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


Perhaps  I  was  a  bard  and  wrought 
Some  golden  martial  story, 
How  Helen  loved,  how  Hector  fought, 
My  harp  a-thrill  with  glory: 
Again  you  bring  those  mystic  years, 
I  hear  your  praise,  I  feel  your  tears. 

The  golden  God  sat  in  my  shell 

And  Venus  breathed  in  you; 

Did  not  I  sing  both  wild  and  well? 

Did  not  I  warmly  woo  ? 

Perhaps  we  swooned  to  some  sweet  wrong 

That  thrilled  us  like  a  battle  song! 

O  let  us  take  the  ancient  way, 
The  way  we  knew  of  old 
Ere  Time  flew  o'er  and  made  us  gray, 
Ere  Death  had  made  us  cold : 
Again  the  old  sweet  way  begin ! — 
How  can  it  lead  us  into  sin? 


30 


John  G.  Neihardt 


XVIII 
RECOGNITION 

WHAT  far-hurled  cry  is  this — what  subtle  shout 
That  drives  the  winter  of  my  spirit  out 
With  trumpets  and  the  cymballed  joy  of  spring? 
No  more  am  I  the  shivering  beggared  thing 
That  dreamed  of  summer  in  a  bed  of  snow ! 
Hark  how  the  scarlet  trumpets  madly  blow 
A  glad,  delirious  riot  of  sweet  sound ! 

0  I  have  found 

At  last  the  soul  I  lost  so  long  ago 
In  Thessaly,  where  Peneus'  waters  flow ! 
For  thou  wert  Lais,  and  of  yore  'twas  thus 
That  thou  didst  speak  to  me — Hippolochus! 
And  I  have  not  forgot. 

Still  dreaming  of  the  old  impassioned  spot, 

1  passed  through  many  pangful  births  in  Time, 
Weaving  in  many  tongues  the  aching  rhyme 
That  groped  about  and  cried  for  thee  in  vain ! 
Of  many  deaths  I  passed  the  gates  of  pain  ; 
And  down  to  many  hells  the  bitter  ways 

I  trod,  still  seeking  for  the  ancient  days. 
31 


A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


Through  many  lands  in  many  women's  eyes 
I  longed  to  overtake  thee  with  surprise. 

O  the  long  ages  that  I  sought  for  thee ! 
Hast  thou  kept  pure  the  ancient  drink  for  me? 
Who  touched  with  careless  lips  my  goblet's  brim, 
Daring  to  dream  the  vintage  was  for  him? 
Half  jealous  of  those  lips  of  dust  am  I ! 

O  let  us  journey  back  to  Thessaly, 
And  from  faint  echoes  build  the  olden  song! 
Hast  thou  forgotten,  through  these  ages  long, 
The  tinkle  of  the  sheep-bells  and  the  shrill 
Glad  oaten  reeds  of  shepherds  on  the  hill  ? 
Our  days  of  sultry  passion  and  the  nights 
That  flashed  the  dizzy  lightning  of  delights? 

At  last  I  feel  again  thy  finger-tips ! 

Be  as  a  purple  grape  upon  my  lips, 

Made  sweet  with  dew  of  dreams,  and  wholly  mine! 

O  let  me  drink  the  sweet  forbidden  wine 

Crushed  out  with  bruising  kisses !    Death  is  near, 

And  I  shall  lose  thee  once  again,  my  dear! 

The  dust  of  ages  chokes  me !    Quick !  The  wine ! 
Lift  up  the  goblet  of  thy  lips  to  mine ! 

The  bony  Terror!    Hark  his  muffled  drums! — 
Let  us  be  drunken  when  the  Victor  comes! 


John  G.  Neihardt 


XIX 
CONFESSION 

MY  love  is  like  the  snarl  of  haughty  drums 
And  blare  of  trumpets,  when  a  great  one  comes 
Down  some  thronged  breathless  city  thoroughfare: 
And  yours  is  like  a  song  that  fills  the  air 
Of  evening  when  the  dew  has  made  it  sweet 
And  Peace  walks  through  the  dusk  with  quiet  feet. 

My  love  is  like  the  visual  shout  of  red 
That  threads  the  drowsing  of  a  poppy  bed 
In  summer,  when  the  sun  makes  heavy  heat : 
And  yours  is  like  the  white  flower,  cool  and  sweet, 
That  fills  the  kind  shade  with  a  pleasant  scent, 
Unshrivelled  with  the  sun  and  well  content. 

My  dreams  come  robed  In  scarlet  flame  to  me 
And  lead  through  gardens  of  strange  phantasy 
My  fevered  feet;  where  heavy  odors  cling 
And  birds  of  blood-red  plumage  nest  and  sing 
Delirious  loves,  mad  doubts  and  sacred  trust, 
The  pathos  and  the  joy  of  human  dust. 


33 


A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


XX 

WEARY 

MY  brain  is  weary  with  the  whirling  day ! 
Snatch  me  away ! 
Away  from  cold,  sane  living,  quiet  breath ! 

I  ne'er  have  seen  the  proof  of  human  laws : 

Only  the  warm  vast  Cause 

Shall  lead  me  to  your  arms,  your  breast,  your  lip ! 

Teach  me  to  sip 

The  sweetness  out  of  living  unto  death! 

I  only  know  I  draw  a  fevered  breath, 

I  only  know  my  eyes  are  fagged  and  dim — 

Fill  up  my  soul  with  beauty  to  the  brim ! 

I  am  so  weary,  and  your  lips  are  red — 
Pillow  my  head! 


34 


John  G.  Neihardt 


XXI 
IF   THIS   BE   SIN 

CAN  this  be  sin? 
This  ecstasy  of  arms  and  eyes  and  lips, 
This  thrilling  of  caressing  finger-tips, 
This  toying  with  incomparable  hair  ? 
(I  close  my  dazzled  eyes  you  are  so  fair!) 
This  answer  of  caress  to  fond  caress, 
This  exquisite  maternal  tenderness? 
How  could  so  much  of  beauty  enter  in, 
If  this  be  sin? 

Can  it  be  wrong? 

This  cry  of  flesh  to  flesh,  so  like  a  song? 
This  fusing  of  two  atoms  with  a  kiss, 
Hurled  toward  the  black  and  pitiless  abyss? 

Can  it  be  crime 

That  we  should  snatch  one  happy  hour  from  Time — 
Time  that  has  naught  but  death  for  you  and  me  ? 
(How  soon,  O  Dearest,  shall  we  cease  to  be!) 
And  could  one  frenzied  hour  of  love  or  lust 
Add  to  the  final  tragedy  of  dust? 
35 


A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


E'en  though  we  be  two  sinners  burned  with  bliss, 
Kiss  me  again,  that  warm  round  woman's  kiss ! 
Close  up  the  gates  of  gold !   I  go  not  in 
If  this  be  sin. 


John  G.  Neihardt 


XXII 
LET   DOWN   YOUR   HAIR 

UNBIND  your  hair  and  let  its  masses  be 
Soft  midnight  on  the  weary  eyes  of  me. 
I  faint  before  the  dazzle  of  your  breast; 
Make  shadow  with  your  hair  that  I  may  rest, 
And  I  will  cool  my  fevered  temples  there : 
Let  down  your  hair. 

Ah — so !    It  falls  like  night  upon  a  day 
Too  bright  for  peace.    It  is  a  cruel  way 
That  leads  to  this,  alas,  which  is  but  pain. 
I  am  athirst — your  tresses  fall  like  rain: 
Ah,  wrap  me  close  and  bind  me  captive  there 
Amid  your  hair! 

How  much  my  soul  has  given  that  my  flesh 
Might  lie  a  thrall  in  this  enchanted  mesh! 
Something  I  grope  for  that  I  used  to  hold ; 
Something  it  was  bought  dearly — cheaply  sold ; 
Something  divine  was  strangled  unaware 
Here  in  your  hair ! 

But  no — I  wiH  not  grieve — will  not  complain. 
Let  your  hair  fall  upon  me  like  night  rain 
37 


402G5O 


A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


And  shut  me  from  myself,  and  make  me  blind ! 
How  can  I  deem  this  bondage  aught  but  kind  ? 
And  yet — I  cannot  sleep  for  some  dumb  care 
Here  in  your  hair. 


John  G.  Neihardt 


XXIII 
THE   LYRIC   NIGHT 

OGIRL,  if  you  could  die  before  the  dawn 
Makes  shoddy  this  the  garment  of  our  dream, 
Above  your  shapely  form  of  chiseled  ice 
I  could  weep  tears  of  gladness,  seeing  how 
The  bitter  freeze  of  death  had  chastened  you ! 

But  Day  will  come  a-knocking  at  the  blinds, 
Flooding  the  secret  nooks  of  our  delight, 
And  all  the  gaud  and  tinsel  of  this  dream        , 
Which  now  seems  gold,  shall  be  a  mockery! 
The  night  lamp's  glow,  conniving  at  our  joy, 
Shall  struggle  vainly  with  the  virile  Dawn, 
Sending  a  loathsome  odor  from  its  grease! 
And  you  and  I — immortal  seeming  now 
Upon  the  charmed  Olympus  of  this  couch — 
Shall  groan  to  feel  our  putrid  life-in-death ! 

O  I  could  smile  upon  you  here  in  death, 
For  Death  is  chaste  and  wise  and  very  kind ; 
But  my  soul  aches  that  it  must  see  you  walk 
To-morrow  in  the  vulgar  gaze  of  Day, 
Lifelike,  yet  dead — so  dead  to  what  you  were. 
39 


A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


Kiss  me  again  before  the  stars  snuff  out ! 
Once  more  before  the  lyric  Night  be  lost 
Amid  the  prosy  droning  of  the  Day ! 


40 


John  G.  Neihardt 


XXIV 
TITAN-WOMAN 

O  GREAT  kind  Night, 
Calm  Titan-Woman  Night! 
Broad-bosomed,  motherly,  a  comforter  of  men! 
Reach  out  thy  arms  for  me 
And  in  thy  jeweled  hair 
Hide  thou  my  face  and  blind  mine  aching  eyes! 

I  hate  the  strumpet  smile 

Of  Day !    No  peace  hath  she. 

Draw  thou  me  closer  to  thy  veiled  face ! 

For  thou  art  womanlike, 

A  lover  and  a  mother, 

And  thou  canst  wrap  me  close  and  make  me  dream, 

As  one  not  cursed  with  light. 

I  shall  forget  my  flesh, 

This  flesh  that  burns  and  aches 

And  fevers  into  hideous,  shameless  deeds! 

And  in  the  sweet  blind  hours 

I  shall  seek  out  thy  lips, 

I  shall  dream  sweetly  of  thy  Titan  form ; 


A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


The  languid  majesty 

Of  smooth  colossal  limbs 

At  ease  upon  the  hemisphere  for  couch ! 

And  of  thy  veiled  face 

Sweet  fancies  I  shall  fashion; 

Half  lover-like  I  seek  thee,  yearning  toward  thee! 

For  I  am  sick  of  light, 

Mine  eyes  ache,  I  am  weary. 

O  Woman,  Titan-Woman! 

Though  lesser  ones  forsake  me, 

Yet  thou  wilt  share  my  couch  when  I  am  weary. 

Thy  fingers!    Ah,  thy  fingers! 

They  touch  me !    Lift  me  closer, 

Extinguish  me  amid  thy  jeweled  tresses! 

Thou  wert  the  first  great  Mother, 

Shalt  be  the  last  fair  woman : 

White  breasts  of  flesh  grow  cold,  soft  flesh  lips  wither: 

O  First  and  Ultimate, 

O  Night,  thou  Titan-Woman, 

Thou  wilt  not  fail  me  when  these  fall  to  dust ! 

The  moon  upon  thy  forehead ! 

The  stars  amid  thy  black  locks! 

Extinguish  me  upon  thy  breast,  amid  thy  tresses ! 


John  G.  Nethardt 


XXV 
AT  DAWN 

EITEN!    All  the  world  is  still; 
One  bleared  hour  and  night  is  gone. 
See  yon  lonely  moon-washed  hill 
Lift  its  head  to  catch  the  dawn ! 

In  the  east  the  eager  light 
Sets  the  curtained  dusk  a-sag; 
And  all  the  royal  robe  of  Night 
Frays  cheaply — like  a  rag ! 

Once  I  felt  a  lifting  joy 
When  I  saw  the  day  unfurl, 
Watching,  just  a  laughing  boy, 
For  the  Morning  Girl. 

Oft  I  met  her  in  the  dew 
Face  to  face,  her  sapphire  eyes 
Burning  on  me  through  the  blue 
Of  the  morning  skies. 

And  her  pure  and  dazzling  breast 
Made  with  joy  my  senses  swoon, 
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A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


As  she  burned  from  crest  to  crest 
Upward  toward  the  noon. 

Now  no  more  I  seek  her  shrine, 
Seek  no  more  her  golden  hair 
Sparkling  in  the  morning  shine 
And  the  purple  air. 

Comes  no  more  the  Morning  Girl, 
Glows  not  now  her  golden  head, 
When  the  clouds  of  dawn  unfurl — 
Purple,  yellow,  red. 

Now  the  waning  of  the  night 
Means  another  day  is  near ; 
Just  a  haggard  splotch  of  light, 
A  turning  of  the  sphere ! 

Would  that  in  the  coming  hour 
I  might  be  that  boy  who  knew 
Fragrant  import  of  the  flower, 
Lyric  impulse  of  the  dew ! 


44 


John  G.  Neihardt 


XXVI 
ACROSS  THE  SEA  OF  CENTURIES 

DEAD  Kin  of  mine, 
O  savage  ancient  Kin! 
I  call  to  you  across  the  night  of  years, 
I   reach  out   groping  toward  you   across  the  sea  of 

centuries ! 

Mine  eyes  are  dazzled  with  the  light  of  Now; 
Mine  ears  are  weary  with  the  babblings  of  the  over- 
wise! 

A  far-blown  spirit,  half  conscious  of  an  ancient  bigness, 
Unable  to  forget  the  good  huge  lusts  of  old, 
Refleshed  in  weaker  flesh  than  thine    (Once  mine!) 

O  ancient  Kin, 
I  blunder,  blunder,  blunder  in  these  modern  ways. 

In  the  ways  of  men  too  sensitive  I  stumble ! 
This  frail  and  hot-house  body  shrivels  in  the  heat  of 
mine  archaic  breathing! 

The  sun  of  old-world  wildernesses  arouses  me  at  dawn, 

And,  half  awake,  I  breathe  the  breath  of  Gallic  forests; 

45 


A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


I  scent  the  good  blood-tang  of  primitive  fights ; 
I  nose  the  steam  of  kettles  and  the  hunks  of  brawn  that 
fed  me  and  my  Kin. 

And  in  the  nights  I  feel  the  breath  of  giant  women : 
I  feel  their  coarse  blonde  hair  about  my  face. 
Their  strong  hands  caress  me. 
Comforters  of  battling  men  are  they, 
Breeders  of  fighting  men, 
Sucklers  of  the  big  and  unafraid ! 

O  ancient  Mate  of  mine ! 
O  good  blonde  Giantess, 
Blown  far  to  hitherward  through  the  weird  ways  of 

my  sleeping! 

Thou  knowest  the  hidden  beauty  of  my  lusts ! 
Touch  me  in  my  prison  of  the  Present ! 
Thine  eyes  are  blue  with  the  calm  understanding  of  the 

old  skies, 
And  thine  hempen  hair  exhales  the  breath  of  the  forests 

of  home. 

Over  our  ancient  camps  are  builded  the  cities  of  the 

Anaemic. 

The  gods  of  our  old  believing  are  fled, 
And  men  of  lesser  dreams,  hair-splitters  and  too  wise, 
Have  builded  little  walls  about  a  shriveled-up  divinity ! 
While  I — of  ancient  spirit  and  of  modern  flesh — 
Go  blundering  through  the  fragile  scheme  of  things, 
Feeling  old  loves  and  lusts  and  with  a  little  voice 
Shouting  aloud  rude  snatches  of  old  cries! 
46 


John  G.  Neihardt 


I  long  for  the  smoke-tang  of  vanished  campfires ! 
I.  hunger  for  the  feasts  of  bigger  men ! 
Too  frail  for  these  old  giant  lusts,  I  shrivel, 
And  my  heart  aches  for  home. 


47 


A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


XXVII 
THE   CRY  OF   THE   SAMSON   IN    ME 

I    MUST  shake  off  this  blindness  like  a  veil 
That  shuts  me  from  the  daylight  of  endeavor, 
For  I  have  slept  too  long !    I  feel  the  joy 
Of  battle  thrill  the  muscles  of  my  arms 
That  have  grown  flabby  righting  only  phantoms 
And  wrestling  with  vain  things  beneath  my  strength. 

I  must  arise  and  stretch  my  terrible  arms 
Again  as  ere  Delilah  dipt  my  locks! 
Out  of  this  couch  of  sloth  my  limbs  I'll  hurl! 
Breathe  once  again  the  breath  of  mighty  odds, 
And  I  shall  cry  a  challenge  to  the  Days 
That  mocked  the  Giant  sleeping  like  a  babe ! 

For  I  have  lain  as  lies  a  fallen  tower, 
Content  to  be  the  hiding  place  of  weeds 
And  eaten  with  the  lichen-teeth  of  sloth. 
I  must  tear  off  this  midnight  from  mine  eyes 
And  let  the  Noon  burn  there!    Oft  have  I  waked 
From  dreams  that  whipped  my  slumbering  blood  to 
flame, 

48 


John  G.  Neihardt 


And  for  one  terrible  moment  I  have  leaned 
Upon  my  quivering  elbows ;  but  alas ! 
My  blindness  struck  me  down  upon  my  back 
And  left  me  dreaming  of  unconquered  things! 

O  I  must  'rise  ere  blindness  drives  me  mad, 
When  I  should  shake  down  in  my  poor  despair 
The  sacred  temple  of  my  better  self. 


49 


A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


B 


XXVIII 
THE   CITY  OF   DUST 

EHOLD  me — a  shadow! 
The  shadow  of  an  ancient  laughing  thing ! 


Fallen  columns  disintegrated  with  time; 

Sacred  mounds  insulted  with  the  growth  of  scornful 

weeds  ; 

Shattered  arches  haunted  with  the  lizard  and  the  snake : 
This    is    my    Babylon — the    Babylon    I    built    and 

feasted  in! 

O,  but  the  wantonness  of  my  Babylon ! 

The  princely  prodigality  of  my  Babylon ! 

This  was  the  throne — I  sat  upon  it. 

I  sat  upon  it  and  feasted  mine  ears  with  the  haughty 

trumpets, 
Mine  eyes  with  the  scarlet  and  purple  of  Pride. 

And  once  in  this  long  fallow  garden  a  lily  grew : 
It  was  my  Lily — it  grew  for  me. 
The  weeds  grow  there  now — they  grow  for  me. 
They  grow  there  now  and  flaunt  their  ragged  coats  in 

the  sun — 
Ruffians  and  shameless ! 

50 


John  G.  Neihardt 


If  I  weep  above  my  fallen  Lily,  will  it  grow? 

The  lizard  flees  from  me  and  the  snake  hisses, 
And  I  am  lonesome — lonesome  in  my  Babylon. 

How  shall  I  pile  up  again  the  kingly  walls  ? 
I  cry  out:  my  voice  is  as  the  yell  of  a  jackal — impotent. 
The  Wind  dances  with  the  Dust  athwart  my  tessel 
lated  courtyards; 
The  Wind  and  the  Dust — their  music  is  a  threnody. 

How  can  I  rebuild  my  Babylon? 
How  conjure  back  the  magic  of  the  olden  time? 
How  can  I  rebuild  my  dust  heaps  into  a  city — 
The  City  of  My  Ancient  Dream? 


A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


XXIX 
LET   ME   LIVE   OUT  MY  YEARS 

ET  me  live  out  my  years  in  heat  of  blood ! 
Let  me  die  drunken  with  the  dreamer's  wine! 
Let  me  not  see  this  soul-house  built  of  mud 
Go  toppling  to  the  dust — a  vacant  shrine! 

Let  me  go  quickly  like  a  candle  light 
Snuffed  out  just  at  the  heyday  of  its  glow! 
Give  me  high  noon — and  let  it  then  be  night ! 
Thus  would  I  go. 

And  grant  that  when  I  face  the  grisly  Thing, 
My  song  may  trumpet  down  the  gray  Perhaps ! 
Let  me  be  as  a  tune-swept  fiddlestring 
That  feels  the  Master  Melody — and  snaps ! 


John  G.  Neihardt 


XXX 

PRAYER  OF  AN  ALIEN   SOUL 

O   CENTER  of  the  Scheme, 
Star-Flinger,  Beauty-Builder,  Shaping  Dream! 
Now  as  the  least  in  all  thy  space  I  stand 
An  alien  in  a  strange  and  lonesome  land. 
I  lift  a  little  voice  of  pigmy  pain  ; 
I  hurl  it  out — up — down — and  shall  I  cry  in  vain  ? 
Hear  thou  the  prayer  that  struggles  in  this  song — 
Let  me  not  linger  long ! 


I  crave  the  boon  of  dying  into  life! 

Extend  a  pitying  knife 

And  let  these  flesh-gyves  part,  let  me  be  free ! 

Are  we  not  kin  ?    Am  I  not  part  of  Thee  ? 

Am  I  not  as  a  ripple  in  a  cranny  of  thy  Sea? 

What  part  have  I  in  sequent  wretched  eves, 

Blear  dawns,  dull  noons,  the  budding  and  the  falling 

of  the  leaves  ? 

Why  must  I  drag  about  this  chain  of  years, 
Long  rusted-red  with  tears? 
Why  must  I  crawl  when  I  have  wings  to  fly? 
Behold  thy  child — the  Winged  One — it  is  I ! 
53 


A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


Was  not  I  made  to  sing? 

But  here  I  lisp,  and  twang  one  yet  unbroken  string! 

At  times  here  in  the  dust 

I  lift  my  head,  I  strive  to  sing — I  must! 

The  miracle  of  growing  wraps  me  round ! 

Light !    Sound ! 

Form!     Motion!     Upward  yearning!    Outward 

reaching ! 

A  universal  praying,  dumb  beseeching ! 
I  feel  that  I  am  more  than  flesh  and  futile, 
A  being  ultra-carnal,  super-brutal ! 
I  understand  these  growing  green  beseechers, 
These  hopeful  climbers  and  these  earnest  reachers! 
I  understand  their  yearnings  every  one, 
How  each  tense  fiber  hungers  for  the  sun ! 
I  lay  my  hand  upon  the  sturdy  weed 
Whose  darkling  purpose  burst  the  prison-seed 
And  cleft  the  mud  and  took  its  light  and  dew, 
Looked  up,  reached  out,  believed  in  life — and  grew! 
I  know  that  we  are  kin  ; 
That  hope  is  virtue  and  that  doubt  is  sin ; 
And  o'er  me  comes  a  hungering  for  song: 
I  lift  my  voice — I  falter.    Ah,  the  long 
Dumb  years,  the  aching  nights  and  days! 
And  yet  I  raise 

My  unavailing  cacophonic  cry. 
Thine  erstwhile  singing  child — behold! — 'Tis  I! 

In  this  strange  wretched  prison  of  the  soul 
Shall  I  not  lose  my  swiftness  for  the  Goal  ? 
54 


John  G.  Neihardt 


It  seems  I  must 

At  length  become  too  much  the  kin  of  Dust. 

Ah  me,  the  fever  born  of  Hate  and  Lust ! 

Ah  me,  the  senseless  unmelodic  din ! 

Ah  me,  the  soul-hope  sick  with  fleshly  sin ! 

And  in  my  prison  ancient  dreams  grow  up 

To  fill  with  dust  my  cracked  and  thirst-betraying  cup. 

Dreams  mantled  in  the  purple  of  dead  glory 

That  filled  the  aeons  out  of  reach  of  human  story : 

Not  always  have  I  worn  these  dusty  rags ! 

The  Purpose  of  my  being  falters,  lags, 

And  I  am  sick,  sick,  sick  to  live  again. 

Yet  not  because  of  this  poor  dust-born  pain 

Do  I  cry  out  and  grope  about  for  Thee. 

I  hear  the  far  cry  of  my  Destiny, 

Whose  meaning  sings  beyond  the  furthest  sun. 

I  faint  in  these  red  chains — O  let  me  'rise  and  run ! 

How  long  shall  leaves  grow  green  and  fade  and  fall, 
How  long  shall  Night  chase  Day  and  Day  flee  Night, 
How  long  shall  my  far  Purpose  vainly  call 
Ere  I  remingle  with  my  native  light  ? 
O  Center  of  the  Scheme, 

Star-Flinger,  Beauty-Builder,  Shaping  Dream! 
Hear  thou  the  prayer  that  struggles  in  this  song- 
Let  me  not  linger  long. 


55 


A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


XXXI 
THE   ANCIENT   STORY 

IT  is  the  ancient  story  lived  anew. 
Dost  thou  remember  how  the  mighty  Jew 
Spoke  at  the  table  of  the  Pharisee 
And  puzzled  all  who  heard  Him ;  tenderly 
Forgiving  her  whose  soul  was  red  with  sin 
And  seared  with  lust?    How  that  she  entered  in 
Where  sat  the  Lord,  and  cast  her  down  and  wept  ? 
How  to  His  feet  she  crept 

And  washed  them  with  her  tears,  and  humbly  there 
Made  a  soft  foot-cloth  of  her  tumbled  hair, 
Anointing  Him  with  nard  ? 

Howe'er  that  be, 

I  have  lived  out  this  ancient  tale  with  thee ; 
Only  I  am  the  sinner,  thou  the  saint. 
With  heart  bowed  down  and  limbs  grown  strangely 

faint, 

I  creep  unto  thy  feet;  with  half  a  prayer 
A-whisper  on  my  lips ;  and  with  my  hair 
Make  softness  for  thy  feet ;  cleanse  off  with  tears 
The  stains  they  got  that  followed  all  these  years 
The  guilty  paths  I  made,  the  cruel  ways 
That  led  unto  a  blood-red  night  of  haze. 
They  were  my  paths,  and  this  for  thee  sufficed ! 
56 


John  G.  Neihardt 


I  gaze  into  thine  eyes  and  see  the  Christ, 
Calm-eyed,  great-souled,  the  Pitier!    I  see 
How  much  and  yet  how  little  after  me 
Thine  aching  feet  have  followed !    See  how  deep 
I  grovel  from  the  height  that  thou  dost  keep, 
A  sinner,  yet  unsoiled. 

Lift  thou  me  there 

Unto  the  heaven  of  thy  face  and  hair 
That  shines  for  me  far  off  as  summer  dawn. 
The  night  is  gone ! 

I  feel  the  sunrise  quicken  in  my  blood ! 
My  soul  leaps  clean  from  out  its  lair  of  mud ! 

With  nard  I  do  anoint  thee ;  at  thy  feet 
I  burn  this  myrrh  of  bitter  and  of  sweet. 

Lift  thou  me  there 

Unto  the  heaven  of  thy  face  and  hair, 

And  make  my  soul  complete! 


57 


A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


XXXII 
THE   LAST   ALTAR 

EREWHILE    from    out   the    lightning   flare   of 
passion 

I  saw  huge  visions  flung  athwart  the  gloom ; 
I  built  me  altars  after  pagan  fashion 
And  of  mine  hours  I  made  a  hecatomb. 

I  wrought  weird  gods  of  night-stuff  and  of  fancy ; 
I  sought  their  hidden  faces  for  my  law : 
My  days  and  nights  were  filled  with  necromancy, 
And  an  Olympian  awe. 

O  many  a  night  has  seen  my  riot  candles, 

And  heard  the  drunken  revel  of  my  feast, 

Till  Dawn  walked  up  the  blue  with  burning  sandals 

And  made  me  curse  the  east ! 

For  my  faith  was  the  faith  of  dusk  and  riot, 
The  faith  of  fevered  blood  and  selfish  lust; 
Until  I  learned  that  love  is  cool  and  quiet 
And  not  akin  to  dust. 

For  once,  as  in  Apocalyptic  vision, 
Above  my  smoking  altars  did  I  see 
58 


John  G.  Neihardt 


My  god's  face,  veilless,  ugly  with  derision — 
The  shameless,  magnified,  projected — Me! 

And  I  have  left  mine  ancient  fanes  to  crumble, 
And  I  have  hurled  my  false  gods  from  the  sky; 
I  wish  to  grasp  the  joy  of  being  humble, 
To  build  -great  Love  an  altar  ere  I  die. 


59 


A  Bundle  of  Myrrh 


XXXIII 
RESURRECTION 

THERE— close  your  eyes,  poor  eyes  that  wept 
for  me ! 

Pillow  your  weary  head  upon  my  arm. 
You  need  not  clutch  me  so,  I  will  not  flee ; 
Here  am  I  bound  by  no  mere  carnal  charm. 

At  last  I  am  not  blind,  for  I  can  see 
Through  your  mere  flesh  as  only  spirit  can ; 
I  feel  at  last  the  world-old  tragedy, 
The  sacrifice  of  woman  unto  man. 


In  that  far  time  when  my  first  father  sought 
To  cool  the  strange  mad  fever  in  his  veins, 
Seeing  how  fair  the  creature  he  had  bought 
With  straining  sinews  and  wild  battle  pains ; 

Then  was  this  moment  of  your  anguish  sown 
And  you  have  reaped  but  do  not  understand. 
How  frail  and  thin  your  blue-veined  hands  have  grown, 
How  trustingly  they  clutch  my  guilty  hand ! 
60 


John  G.  Neihardt 


The  story  of  the  world  is  in  your  face ; 
I  gaze  upon  it,  hearing  through  dead  years 
The  wailings  of  the  women  of  the  race, 
The  melancholy  fall  of  many  tears. 

In  many  a  Garden  of  Gethsemane, 
Sweet  with  strange  odors,  redolent  of  bliss, 
Again  is  played  the  human  tragedy 
With  Judas  waiting  in  the  dark  to  kiss. 

Not  only  upon  Calvary  has  died 
The  patient  tortured  Christ  misunderstood ; 
Over  and  over  is  He  crucified 
Wherever  man  besmirches  womanhood. 

I  who  have  laughed  too  long  at  sacred  things, 
Who  felt  no  god  about  me  in  the  gloom, 
Now  hear  a  Something  mystical  that  sings 
Sweeter  than  love,  yet  terrible  as  doom. 

In  your  frail  face  I  see  a  glory  grow 
That  smites  me,  guilty,  like  a  burning  rod ! 
I  kneel  before  you,  suppliant,  and  know 
That  your  thin  hands  may  lead  me  unto  God ! 


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